Why I made my own sanitary pads.
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When I was ten, I woke up one night by the wetness underneath me. Embarrassed that I peed myself in the bed that I shared with my baby sister, I quickly changed my underwear and prayed that the patch would dry up before day break.
The patch was red. I stumbled into the bathroom, bed sheet and all, and cried over the pot, fearing my death and my mother.
“What had I done wrong to deserve dying this way,” I remember thinking.
It was my mother to the rescue, with her secret green basket, that my inquisitive eyes had never found before. From inside this basket she took out sparkling white cotton and scraps of rectangular cloth, cut out from what looked like her old clothes; and began to demonstrate what it means to be a woman.
“But why don’t men bleed?” I ask; but, not having told me the story of the birds and bees, just yet, she answered:
“Because, men have face hair.”
My coy father shaved on in the bathroom, afraid to see her little girl, just yet.
Later I, convinced my younger sister that I was very ill, and she should be nice to me. And, she might, have seen, some things that a five year old shouldn’t see.
Yes! I showed my sister and scar(r)ed her for life; there I said it!
But that same girl now, knows my whole story thereon, word by word. There are no secrets among sisters.
Puberty is hard, it always has been.
Being yourself is hard, it always has been.
…
Now, twenty years thus, and I spent yet another night in wet agony, as my body like clockwork went about it’s business.
It had recently dawned upon me to be, to become sustainable like my sister, who became a menstrual activist after that first violent in counter with blood. She highly recommended the menstrual cup, and since my sustainability vow to the environment, I decided to give it a whirl.
And whirl, it was. The first few cycles were exciting for the joy, of doing well for myself and mother nature, inserting that apparatus deep inside me. I did have a panic attack here and there, but my sister comforted me.
“It won’t go in further, it has no space to,” thats what she said.
It wasn’t that bad, and I didn’t hate the spots of red ink on my white bathroom tiles. Even with a crocked smile, I didn’t mind the spillage.
What didn’t work for me was, the having it inside me. And for reasons obvious I rather not disclose.
Long, story short, after a night of yet another wet, agony, I woke up this morning, took out my mother’s invisible green basket and confidently, stitched myself a pad, out of her old pink cotton blouse.
And I will keep this basket for my daughter one day to learn.
When, I will teach her how to love her own blood, like my mother taught me.
…
Yours periodically,
!
